


Hurt Me Harder

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Governor Bennett, Prisoner Ferguson, Psychological Warfare, Smut, boiler room fun and more, emotional smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Prisoner Joan Ferguson and Governor Vera Bennett cut a deal despite their history. Complications arise. The pact gets messy. Emotions complicate their Boiler Room tryst.





	1. Laying Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Save_yourself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Save_yourself/gifts).



> Months ago, Save_yourself input a request for freakytits emotional smut involving the boiler room. For months, I dwelt on how to go about it. 
> 
> Here's an excerpt from the original prompt: "The seduction of Vera, Joan thinks she's in control, but in the middle of whatever she's doing, she realises Vera is the one in power. The powerful lioness is now in chains... a slave in her "newfound" need for Vera: to hold,to taste, to feel, to kiss."
> 
> I hope I do it justice! Enjoy, my friend. xx

 “It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.”

 _The Art of War_ – Sun Tzu

A queen sits alone in a tomb representing sterility.

Far removed from the other women, Joan Ferguson inspects her wounded hand. The gauze hides the noxious burns. It's voyeuristic to stand behind the looking glass. To peer into the window. A knowing stare acknowledges the surveillance camera fixated to a corner within the room.

Her father taught her that pain is weakness, but pain in others?

That's beauty.

Black, black eyes survey the burns encased in fresh gauze and a nude-colored arm brace. From the fire, her body’s maintained numerous scars. Though her body suffers the brunt of it all, her mind remains sharper than a tack.

Officer Stewart lingers in the doorframe, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops.

“Right-o,” he says. He purses his James Dean lips and offers his best Sinatra blue stare. “Ready?”

She finds him to be a class act, easily manipulated.

“Allez, Mr. Stewart,” she mocks with uplifted brows.

As to be expected, Mr. Stewart transports the goods. Cuffs hang heavy around her wrists. Despite her imprisonment, she struts down the prison hall. Nothing has changed, simply the uniform. Soon, it will all belong to Joan Ferguson again.

This lays out the overture. Their tragedy plans out a five-act opera. Something wicked this way comes.

Enter: a familiar spirit from Hell.

A green light filters through the boiler room. Pipes hiss. Constructed metal pythons twist. This marks the grand machination to keep the prison afloat. As instructed, Joan Ferguson remains perfectly still in the center of the room. Officer Stewart slips out as easily as he came; she's not the one she awaits. Anticipates.

Seducing Vera Bennett ought to be a simple enough feat. She does not require a bouquet, but silken words to win her over – the promise of affection by a warm palm stroking her cheek, her hair. That's where Mr. Stewart comes in.

Jake is the puppet, Joan the puppeteer.

This is an _orchestrated_ demise.

Jake doesn't mention the arrangement when he's alone with Vera. Perhaps he has his wits about him after all. Constant scheming takes a nefarious turn. Joan only seeks to obtain her soul.

'Lo and behold, she taps the badge to the door. It chimes whimsically, granting Governor Bennett access. Butterflies float about her belly. She feels fear, outweighed by her newly found confidence.

This twisted fucking Labyrinth of a prison leads to a beast at the center. Downright primordial, there is no out.

"So you've _come_ ," Ferguson drawls. Words spill from the tip of her wagging tongue like fine wine. Hands clasp in front of her shapely waist; the act repeats itself.

A ghost of a smile lingers on Vera's lips.

“Joan.”

“Vera.”

“It’s fucking Guv’na.”

And so it begins.

Vera's fortunes, both good and bad, manifest in the form of the governorship.

Inconspicuous in its deliverance, the Boiler Room brings them back to the past. They've cut a deal. A pact of sorts.

The Devil dresses not in red, but teal.

They obsess. It’s in their nature .

"I should slot you," Miss Bennett states rather matter-of-factly.

"But you won't. Why else have you called me here? Your superficiality shines, Vera."

"I've made this arrangement, Ferguson. Not you." She sizes up the beast in the room. "You used to be the ghost that haunts me, but not anymore." Nobly, she puffs out her chest. The gesture doesn't suit her.

"How the mighty fall." Joan tuts thereafter.

“There is a proviso,” Vera (‘it’s fucking Governor’) Bennett cautions. To refrain from fidgeting, her balled fists rest within the confines of her trousers. There, they rattle.

Here and now, the Devil jests. Reduced to an archetypal, cartoonish villain, Joan wags her finger.

"Now, now, Vera. It wasn't only the crowns that you coveted."

The current Governor huffs.

"I don't pretend to understand the work of your mind," she confesses.

"You're wise not to, Vera. You never were quite willing to grasp that higher power."

This time, Vera mumbles. Years of emotional abuse take their toll. Tiny shoulders quiver and tense. They threaten to graze her ear lobes. She chews on the inside of her cheeks.

“What I want is to be good enough. Just for once in my life.”

 _You were for me._

It goes unsaid.

Addiction strings you along. Joan Ferguson has witnessed enough junkies waste away within this clammy, brick walls. She acknowledges that this little _volchitsa_ craves a warped sort of penance. Now her Governor, formerly her Deputy, these lines bleed and blur together.

The truth is a bastard. It doesn’t heal and it will never set them free.

Clicking her teeth, Joan drums her fingers against the rusted pipes. Arrogance incarnate, she exudes a sliver of her shadowed self.

“This prison belongs to me,” Joan states calmly. “I’ve made decisions no one else had the courage to make.”

It’s all a bit close to the bone.

Vera's temple throbs. She's had enough of the banter, but not of the funny games. After awhile, you forget who you’re fucking with. But even that is a lie.

She’s always wanted a happy ending. Believe it or not, they both have.

The panther in the room makes her move. Joan encircles her prey. 'Round and 'round, she goes. Eyes survey the petite woman who remains as still as marble; she learned stoicism from the best though she was never quite able to apply its practice.

“Do you deliver this as your deed?” Ferguson inquires, dropping allusions here and there, not meant to be understood by anyone but herself.

Irked, Vera stirs. She flinches. The tightness in her jaw grows in multitudes.

“Take me” comes out as her simple demand. Shadows rob her of her former innocence. There is nothing left save for blue blood.

These trysts escalate. They intensify as much as they electrify.

“You need to have faith in me,” Joan insists. “I know what’s best.”

In an attempt to make her feel again, she dances circles around her heart. A steady palm rests upon Vera's chest. In rapid succession, she pats the place threefold. Gradually, her hand slithers past the buttons of the uniform which keep the blazer intact.

"Tell me: is this how Mr. Stewart had you? Did you imagine it was me?"

Vera will do no such thing.

 _I don't want him; I want you._

She wants to scream her truth. Screwing her eyes shut, she feels the malevolent presence shift behind her. Albeit reluctantly, the Devil comes around. Tall and imposing, she scrutinizes the woman who's taken her freedom, her dignity, her **trust**.

“Go on. Reap what you sow,” her little mouse goads.

Sallow cheeks spasm. Joan glares. Silently, indignantly, she sinks to her knees one after the other. Her fiery touch settles on small, built thighs. She settles between this holy altar that she's erected. In her image, it falls short.

This time, Mephistopheles looks up to Faust in perfect reverence. Nimble fingers aid in the art of defenestration. Violently, through the hosiery, Joan tugs down Governor Bennett's trousers. Around her ankles, they pool. Plain panties follow thereafter.

Gasping aloud, Vera's head falls back. Glacial blue meets the searing, bright lights that sway from the ceiling. She hasn't found God – far from it.

Caught in a landslide, it starts like this.


	2. Waging War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can make poetry out of anything: the damned, the twisted, the ugly, even a fuck to keep authority in line.

> “It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on.”
> 
> _T_ _he Art of War_ – Sun Tzu

Joan Ferguson contaminates. This is what she does best. The hour belongs to the Devil.

Cool concrete nips at her knees. Joints bemoan in protest. While reasonably fit, age opposes the body. The sizzle and hiss inside the room disrupts the provocative silence. Steam leaks out of a nearby pipe. It doesn't explode; it's not a threat.

They exchange a simmering stare.

Her former disciple stands tall, savoring the view of the plummeting fall.

Three, red scratches adorn Vera's inner, bronzed thigh. Of course, her fallen – her chosen – reciprocates. Her curious hand slips beneath the collar of her teal tracksuit. She scratches through the thin material of her undershirt. They hiss in sync.

They engage in a corps-a-corps.

“I hold dominion over you.”

Vera sounds mechanical, Joan realizes. Her grief's turned to a rot that hollowed out the remnants of her innocence. The revelation stings.

You attract what you are.

“You don't,” Joan counters coolly.

_I am in control._

To declare innocence is a denial in itself. Both parties are guilty.

“You don't grovel,” Governor Bennett points out.

Is this the Vera she wants, hardened and jaded? Hungry for God's malevolence?

“Shall we play a game?” Joan asks, canting her head slightly.

She does this again and again and again. She hurts for the sake of hurting. Inflicting pain is far easier – simpler – than tearing open her chest and laying bare her heart.

Her lip quirks at the grime that collects on her knees. She's grateful for the prison-issued uniform, but not thankful for the constraints it brings.

Rising to her full, intimidating height, she flicks out her serpentine tongue to wet her mouth. Killing hands rise with the motion. They venture up Vera's calves, her thighs, the swell of her behind.

Ferguson removes the cuffs from Vera's utility belt. She snaps them around thin, frail wrists and secures her to the pipes nearby. _Click, click._

"Spread them apart."

Knowledge acquired, Vera has a kick to her. A savage bite. Despite the rift, she complies. Like a good girl, she parts her legs. She grows wetter by the minute, a gleam to the curls between her thighs.

"You were always a fan of the controversial frisk technique," she goads.

At the remark, her palm meets her pert bottom. Vera squeaks. She tests her bonds, her recently acquired prison. Prey writhes and squirms, impudence embedded within her oceanic stare.

Liar, liar, God and Maker, admires the view. She longs for the sensation of leather against her palm and shrouding her fingers. One by one, Joan flexes them. Her injured hand drifts up Vera's blouse – where she knows her belly to be. Higher, she meanders and lightly tests the malleable flesh that makes up her throat.

She could end it now and cause a scandal for Wentworth. For the sake of Joan's prison, she will do no such thing.

They grapple like devils in Hell.

“Do it,” Vera asks and pleads simultaneously. The maiden shows distress though she likes to think that she's capable of saving herself. Impatience causes her to test her mettle.

The heel of Joan's palm guides Vera's face so that they maintain unsettling eye contact. She scrutinizes every line and the way doe's eyes seem to water beneath the blinding lights.

"What does it feel like, Vera, to have everything you wanted?"

"I don't," she denies the claim, accompanied by a shake of her head. "I don't have you."

_You do._

Joan simply doesn't want to admit it. Instead, her lips slant. A ghost of a grin lays in place.

How did the worshiped become the worshiper? From this unsavory position, need battles logic and reason. For no one else would she stoop this low.

To her knees, she returns. Casting aside the risk, she feasts upon her little lamb. She eats her out with broad strokes of her tongue.

Her body resembles an intrinsic shrine.

An asp bites her inner thigh, but the only venom is a bruise which blossoms most violently.

In between her sinewy legs, she worships her sex. Nails dig into her pale, altar-like thighs. Her tongue flattens as she laps at her cunt. This is what it means to die of thirst.

Oh, how pretty Vera looks with her mouth agape, her cries a symphony to adorn this unholy night. She glances up, working the muscles in her jaw.

“Oh, God-! Oh, _fuck_ ,” she whimpers aloud.

Her cry resembles an aria. Why use musical analogies if you can't make sense of them? But ah, Joan orchestrates touch through the idea. The notes flow through her veins. Guide her biting hand.

You can make poetry out of anything: the damned, the twisted, the ugly, even a fuck to keep authority in line.

Beneath her, Joan savors the pulse that flutters. Her thumb works her clit in slow circles. A steady motion, sure and precise. To the knuckle, she slides in. Takes what's owed. What's due to her.

Hoisting herself up, abdominal muscles contract. In a bold move, Vera drapes her legs over sturdy shoulders. She locks herself into place. Eases onto the appropriated throne.

In response, Joan growls. It's a feral kind of love they share. Harder, deeper, she thrusts. Thighs start to tremble, eliciting friction against her cheeks. She cups her behind. Squeezes pliable flesh until it bruises.

“Joan,” the little mouse squeaks in a repetitive mantra. She grinds down upon that hungry, salacious mouth. She's almost surprised that the wicked woman beneath her does not possess a forked tongue.

Gradually, the intensity builds. She won't last for much longer. Hips hitch along with her breath. A sordid cry signifies her wet and sticky release. A flash of heat blinds her much like Lady Iustitia's veil.

In the afterglow, she appears radiant – exuberant like an angel cast out of Heaven. She stares lifelessly at the ceiling. From below, Joan observes. Her with'red heart clenches. It's just muscle, she rationalizes.

Panting, Joan holds her in place. Desire enables for her ministrations to continue. She licks, kisses, and sucks. With a whimper, Vera shifts.

“Stop, no more,” she begs.

And so, the Devil relents.

A telltale awkwardness lingers between them. Distance is a killer. After an excruciatingly silent moment, Joan lowers the sacrifice. Back onto the concrete slab, she stands. Knees knock together. The cuffs come off. Vera rubs her reddened wrists, a flush accentuating her cheeks. She bites her lips in that quirky way of hers.

“Do you need-?”

_-Reciprocation._

“No,” Joan protests. Cuts her off sharply. She ignores the way her cunt throbs from negligence. Now is not the time.

Swollen lips adorn the last of her arousal. From her mouth, it drips like honey. Despite the ache between her legs, Ferguson's preoccupation centers on cleaning herself up.

Troubled, she glances at the sleeve of her jumper. With a grimace, she considers it a last resort. Distraught, she stands.

In a random act of kindness, Vera procures the handkerchief from her blazer's pocket. It's creme-colored, plain and diminutive in its origin.

Again, God accepts this holy offering.

Daintily, she pats at her mouth.

“Thank you,” she says.

This time, she means it.

 


	3. Attack by Strategem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferguson gets into a scrabble with a few of the inmates. Sent to medical, the lioness nurses her minor wounds. It won't distract from the long game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally picking up on this one again. Thanks for your patience! :)

> “Hence the saying: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”
> 
> _The Art of War_ – Sun Tzu

The CCTV makes you God. In her office, Governor Bennett scrutinizes the Devil in disguise. Rather than doing something, Joan Ferguson does _nothing_. It's discerning to say the least. Turned to stone, Prisoner Ferguson doesn't budge. She remains seated on the edge of the medical cot, her body riddled with an age old tension.

Curiosity gets the better of a brazen, little mouse. Irked by suspicion, she pushes away from her desk. She locks up her office. In a swift stride, she makes her way over to medical. Taps her badge to the security measure that beeps in compliance. In the door frame, Vera lingers with her hands thrust deep into her trouser's pockets.

Justice's principle has twisted and remolded itself. Butterflies float about her belly. She feels fear, outweighed by her newly found confidence. Shoulders back, chin up, Vera assumes the military stride of her mentor. The hypnotic light bestows her with a halo.

Joan notices.

Entrapped by this predicament, the scuffle in the courtyard is no mere coincidence. Pink and red mottle Joan's pale cheek. The tiled ground reeks of bleach, the room of antiseptic. Clytemnestra's killing floor has been swept clean.

“Joan.”

“Vera.”

“It’s fucking Guv’na,” she snaps, tone shrill and insistent, packing a cutting edge.

Bemused, Joan snorts.

And so it begins again.

This kind of _f_ _olie à deux_ ensures a bitter end.

Closer to the fire, Vera creeps. The door clicks shut behind her.

“For your incident today, I could slot you.” She speaks matter-of-factly, self-assured by her own admission.

“You won’t,” Joan points out, her one liners a swift backhand that stings just as much as her recent, tender bruises.

“No,” Vera reaffirms with a sigh. “I won’t, but I should.”

_Not this time._

This isn’t the Joan Ferguson she remembers - the stoic Governor who never crumbled under pressure. Prisoner Ferguson resembles a wild animal. A rabid spark ignites her abysmal stare. A chill sweeps down Vera's spine along with the unprecedented: an unseen, forbidden thrill.

Hate stirs such a frightful passion. A phantom thread binds them together. This push and pull launches an attack. They'd rather bicker than lose one another entirely.

“This doesn’t bode well for your future, Ferguson.”

“Nor does it bode well for your career, Vera,” she proclaims, gesturing with her hands, a maestro conducting the hazardous melody that assures Vera's ruin.

Joan neglects the throb in her swollen cheek and the nagging pain festering in her collarbone. Physical agonies can be forgotten for the sake of the long game she plays.

Truth and lies mingle and smear into one indiscernible mix. The veil of professionalism drops. Vera's hands ball into fists, hidden by her pockets where the tendons stretch and flex. Small steps bring her closer. Her badge is crooked again. Joan reaches out to adjust the tag to its appropriate place.

Still, Vera's danger rests within her care. She tilts her head, grey-blue eyes transfixed on the scarred fingers that level her status.

“How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” Joan bites. Her tone remains lawful, neutral, with a fresh shot of disinterest. Best to mask the heart's wants.

Exasperated, Vera shrugs her bony shoulders. Exhaustion creases the lines that adorn her worn heart-shaped face. She shakes her head. Cranes her neck. Shows her playing hands, palms out and open.

“What do you want, Joan?”

This time, Ferguson's teeth graze her bottom lip. Her eyes narrow. Rather than brandishing a ponytail, her hair's down – brushed to a sheen to compensate for the chaos from earlier.

“What do you want to hear, hm? For me to possess you in totality? Even as my patheTic, little underling, you lusted after me. Admit it: you're attracted to women in power.”

For now, she toys with Vera. She crooks two fingers in a “come hither” gesture. After all this, Joan reckons she'll keep her Deputy's crowns as a trophy. As a memento. It's like being skinned alive.

A blush accentuates the younger woman's cheeks. Her teeth graze the inside. She bleeds.

Smirking, Joan wags her index finger. She imitates the hand of God: a real Renaissance painting in this hellhole of a place.

“You want to touch me, you little crown fucker. Mm. Do you?”

Like a rubberband, she snaps. Loud and deafening, the little mouse raises her voice. Governor Bennett makes her move. She sits atop of Joan's lap, feeling the way her thighs twitch from the offense.

“Shut up!”

Vera molds herself into the insertion aria. It continues like this: the fucking, the banter, the late night arrangements.

“Enough, Joan. Just-” A pause, a beat, a skip. “Fuck me.”

How **pitiful**.

Enslaved by this addiction, Joan preys on Vera. That's not quite true, is it? Vera has _her_. It starts off as one kiss, one taste, one touch of her Magdalena.

Her scalded hand aims for the throat though it's not enough to inflict damage. She's intrigued by the gasp that slithers from Miss Bennett's parted, pink lips. Vera straddles her thigh and rocks against her.

The flutter of arousal compels Vera to grind down with Joan chuckling rather cruelly, pressing her leg up into that burning, clothed center. Lust blows out her pupils.

Downright salacious, just as she is insatiable, Vera hitches up the prisoner's white undershirt. With her black bra exposed, Joan clenches her jaw. Coolly, she stares down at this woman responsible for her current standing. Her staccato heart gives a beat. Assures the stoic Joan Ferguson that she is still alive, still feeling, despite all the fucking carnage.

Off, the shirt comes. Nimble fingers tremble as they reach around to unfasten the bra. These garments fall. To balance the scales, Ferguson unbuttons her trousers. Slides down scratchy wool to expose sturdy muscle and carmine lace. At the sight, Joan quirks a brow. Brazenly, Vera worships with history's affection and kisses between the valley of her breasts. There, she nips. Lips worship each breast fervently until her teeth sink into a dusky nipple. Vera sucks. Stormy eyes flit back up, seeking approval even now.

“That’s it,” Joan croons. Her head falls back. “ _Harder_.”

She takes more flesh into her mouth. Harshly, she lashes her tongue. Savors the way this lioness presses her paw down against her skull. Desire makes fools of them both. Vera rides her thigh, eager to receive an ounce of friction.

The Devil's hands smack her ass. Squeezes, rubs, and rolls. You needn't the detail for every deed.

“I can smell how weT you are,” Joan hisses. Blows smoke over the shell of her former deputy's ear. “You want to _taste_ my cunt.”

Her belly flutters at the revelation.

She drags her teeth along her nipple, doe's eyes wide, her ragged breathing muffled by the pound of flesh she's taken.

Ferguson reaches for her bun. Savagely, she tugs. Jerks her head away from her swollen, aching chest. Now's her chance to balance the scales, to indulge in this rare feat of reciprocation.

“Yes,” Vera groans, panting, completely unabashed.

“You’ll always be beneath me, Vera.” The Devil invites her acolyte to service her. Marble thighs come apart, her fingers steepled over the crotch of her teal sweats. This is their Last Supper.

“Go on,” Joan urges. “Lick.”

To her knees, Vera retreats. Impatience allows for the pants to come off. They fling across the room. Nostrils flare at the offense. Desire outweighs consequence. Ferguson spreads her legs further, an open invitation masked by her soaked, black panties.

Those slide off next. Vera buries her head into that rightful place. For years, she's dreamt of this. The broad of her tongue sweeps along her damp, tight slit. She wriggles deeper. Pushes and rubs against her hardened clit. At the salty taste, she issues a moan.

Joan rewards her by clamping an iron fist until wavy, chestnut locks, now defiled and rid of the bun. Bobbypins fall to the ground. They plink like shards of shrapnel exploding in a million directions.

In pleasure, Joan grunts. Hips lift from the cot. She thrusts against Vera's eager tongue that plunges inside. Over and over again. Their joined shadows project a wanton play against the teal, brick wall. With a caustic gasp, she mewls. Arches her back. She's always been a silent lover, but these wicked games get her off. Once a sadist, always a sadist.

Akin to a curtain, her raven's mane falls into her face. She drapes a leg over her old disciple's shoulder to allow access at a far deeper angle. Pleasure causes her to throw her head back, composure thrown out the window.

The animal within begs for eminent release. She claws at her own breasts. Pinches her nipples. Leaves a ragged display of scratches to compliment Vera's bitemarks.

“There, there, there,” she chants, bucking her hips to allow Vera's slithering tongue to drink her in.

Then, it stops. Her thighs quiver. She lets out a gasp, her cunt contracting to lure Vera deeper inside. Sighing, she throws her head back, but no call to God is issued. When she cums, she reaches that everlasting death.

The Morning Star relaxes. A viper's body falls lax. Still, the worshiper continues the act. Vera licks and sucks, nipping at her thighs to leave more bruises – like the one that adorns her cheek, her chest.

“Enough,” Joan shakily commands before pushing her Judas away.

Sighing, Vera retracts. Dazed and mesmerized, her head spins. Her body floats on cloud nine. Licentiousness causes her cunt to clench. Again, she bites her swollen lip. In her blazer with the gilded crown's, she's a fucking mess, but she wants it. She wants _her_.

“Make me cum, Joan.”

Silence trespasses. Ferguson blinks. Gradually, she lowers her head, sated and spent. Old habits die hard. As a means of paying respect, she'll indulge her – just this once. Joan shifts in order to sprawl out across the rickety mattress.  
“Come here,” she orders before her head falls back onto the pillow. “On my face.”

_Oh._

Vera stares as if Joan's sprouted two heads.

“Now, Vera.”

Irritation plagues her tone.

Snapping out of it, Miss Bennett scrambles onto the bed. Purplish marks adorn her knobby knees. She situates herself accordingly. Hovering over Joan's face. She slowly lowers her dripping, aching cunt.

She rocks her hips and lingers from above. Greedy hands seize hold of bronze, toned thighs. Joan’s tongue slithers deep inside. With a cry, Governor Bennett tangles her hands in Ferguson’s rapidly greying mane.

“M-more,” Vera begs. Her own impetuosity causes her to thrust down. She parts her lower lips, gasping when Joan enters with a finger.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Her insistent need becomes a whimper. Faster, she rocks, her pleasure threatening to boil over. Her body shudders as she comes undone. Like a marionette, she collapses. A wilted flower droops.

Seconds pass. A minute slides by. Their music is a cacophony of breathlessness. Gradually, Vera unfolds. She lays beside the nude Devil. Rests her head upon her chest. She marvels at the heart that still beats. Swirling a finger over a shapely breast, she interrupts the enjoyable silence.

“How does it feel to kill a man?”

Joan looks down, her face an impassive mask despite the flicker of lightning in her vantablack stare.

“You tell me, Vera. You watched the light fade from your mother's eyes.”

Vera nibbles on her bottom lip, still wearing that worried (albeit recently vacant) expression.

“I die before you every time I come.”

What a riddle of a woman.

“I don't want to go,” Vera pleads. “Not yet.”

She turns around – wraps her frail arms around Joan. The bird becomes the cage.

At her Faustus' command, Mephistopheles is pliant, after all. This ploy rings truer than a ceremonial toy. Perhaps words have won her over at last.

Joan's hand weighs down on the nape of her neck like a treacherous noose. Unsure of how to coddle, she squeezes, not intending to maim. She steadies her palm on the small of her back with her strong arm draped about Vera's quivering shoulders.

This marks a love affair from long ago. Inevitably, their time together leaves a scar. The damage done is in the way they fuck.


	4. Energy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the act repeats itself: the banter, the bickering, the air war launched between two reputable parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months later, I finally update. Sorry for the inactivity. My life's been absolute chaos.
> 
> This chapter takes place after "Happy Birthday, Vera" (theoretically).

> “Simulated disorder postulates perfect discipline; simulated fear postulates courage; simulated weakness postulates strength.”
> 
> _The Art of War_ – Sun Tzu

A lone balloon floats around Governor Bennett’s office. She takes a pair of scissors to it. In one swift motion, the red atrocity _pops_! At the sound, her jaw clenches. She cannot help the way her body tenses. Loud, sudden noises procure an involuntary reaction no matter her title.

On her desk, Jake's gift remains wrapped and unopened. She doesn’t have the heart to tug the ribbon from the coffin box. Tonight, she'll go home to Jake and cast aside his gift – a final instruction from Joan. All she wants is for a pair of arms to envelope her. To comfort her.

After the fiasco, she pours herself a drink. A funeral libation. No vodka. It burns too much. Brandy is sweeter, far more tolerable and kinder in comparison, but equally potent. The unlawful act leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Vera downs the amber contents in two, steady gulps. With her, it’s all or nothing.

“Happy Birthday, Vera.”

Joan Ferguson haunts her office. The watercolors on the wall contradict the ultraviolence that infiltrates her mind. Reduced to a jail bird, her mettle’s being tested. She excuses herself to the Governor’s restroom. In doing so, this office becomes herself once again.

The cadence of Mephistopheles' sultry voice lures her in again.

“You're a monster,” Vera quips, her teeth clicking as she administers her venom.

With red-rimmed, tear-stained eyes and a freshly exchanged shirt, Vera watches the phantom menace stalk into the adjoining room. She unfastens the tie that chokes by the day’s end. Her blouse spills open at the throat. After another ragged sigh, Vera pours herself one more glass. She leaves the brandy half-empty sloshing on her desk. Pacing after Joan, she follows like days old. Her hip hits the door frame. Given her fragility, she’ll bruise. She’s always keen to.

“Why did you do it?” Vera asks, craning her neck. Horror distorts her features. Comically, her brows draw together. Her restless hands fidget in her pockets.

“Vera, Vera, Vera.” Joan tuts. “What makes you any different?”

The Devil in teal responds with the cold obstinacy of a convicted felon.

She adjusts her ponytail. Silver shines in the clinical light. Ferguson turns on the faucet. Hot water scalds her fingertips. At the familiar burn, she grits her teeth. Shakes the droplets away with a flick of her wrist. Though clean, nothing can erase Gambaro’s bloodshed. From her vantage point, Vera plays the role of voyeur. True monsters wear a human dress. Now Vera can’t determine _who_ the monster is.

“I won't be the one to hang, Joan,” the residing Governor responds softly, quietly. Her throat tightens.

Joan’s broad back arches as though a violin’s bow sweeps across flexed muscle. Tension manifests itself in every stiffened joint. Her half-lidded eyes regard the mirror and Vera’s reflection. Her betrayal closes in for the kill. Kitten heels scrape across the tiled, hallowed ground. Blood can't wash away guilt. Again, she shakes her hands. Repeats the act like a sworn oath, a mantra, a prayer.

Ivan’s words ping against her skull, loud and resonant: _A lesser opponent will rise if you hesitate. You must be ruthless._

An apex predator juts her chin up. She glares at Vera’s reflection, refusing to turn her cheek. Now, her inferior steps forward. Wolf and lamb are cornered into a tight box. The bathroom closes in: a coffin to match a joint impending fate

“I made an executive decision to cut out the rot,” Joan drawls, her words as thick and heavy as cotton on the tip of her swollen tongue.

This, too, is rotting.

In the Governor's bathroom, someone sheds their scales. Hellbent on eminent destruction, they both know how this ends.

Behind her, Vera’s all heat and perdition. This time, Miss Bennett becomes the living embodiment of a recitative. Imitating the spoken word known as Joan’s law, she folds her hands in front of her lap. How fucking _happy_ she must be to see Hell and to return again.

“I am **nothing** like you,” Vera snaps.

This time, shadows span across Vera’s face. She wears a half-mask of darkness which twists Joan’s stomach. A part of her feels glee, the other part desire for the thing she’s fashioned Vera into. Holy shape is a devil at best.

The ruler and the killer maintains her icy façade.

“Some are beyond help,” Joan infers.

All things fake fall apart. As an unhealthy dose of anathema, there’s a crack in her soul. Scapegoat or savior: which is the better of two evils?

Stricken down, she gives it everything she’s got. Her cheek convulses. She shakes free the cuffs from her utility belt. Every comment from Joan reeks of disingenuousness.  Being a hard-arse doesn’t suit Vera.

“You don’t scare me,” Vera counters.

“Likewise.”

From Joan, there’s a near comedic arch of the brows. Living from the admission, God and the Devil rage on inside her. Her posture remains near perfect. The symbolism doesn’t suit Vera. The cool bite of metal sinks into Joan's wrists. It reminds her of Mr. Stewart guiding her to the boiling room – to the Midas maze that promises no delightful end, but these are the conditions of her parole.

“We can accomplish great things if we work together, Vera.”

That soothing lilt resumes. Vera doesn’t fall for the siren’s song. She continues to hurt - projecting herself as the wound that never heals.

“No,” comes Vera’s rebuttal. She jerks those pale wrists that are bound together, prepared for the stigmata.

For the first time in ages, Joan Ferguson experiences an ounce of fear. This is her poison, her cross, her razorblade. A cold sweat breaks out. She lacks the advantage of tapping her temple.

_Think, Joan, think._

Hidden behind Ferguson’s rigid shoulder, Vera glares daggers into her modern Caesar. She yanks the cuffs by the chain. Joan’s body jerks in response. Thin lips curl into a ghostly smirk. This is all a ruse.

“Yet, you crave my touch still.”

“You're wrong. It's my touch that you want,” Vera counters.

So the act repeats itself: the banter, the bickering, the air war launched between two reputable parties. With petty wits to be had, revelation renders her weak at the knees. The ball rolls into Vera’s court.

_I need her._

 “This is a spot strip-search, Ferguson.”

“Specify,” Joan demands. She’s as unkind as the plague. Vera knows this. You cannot tame wild things, but still – she fucking tries.

“On your knees. Now!”

The little mouse has the audacity to bark. Pupils dilate. Warmth burns in her gut like wildfire. To her knees, the messiah falls. In rapid succession, they creak. No longer does her dark, abysmal stare cut into the looking glass. Her eyes meet the brim of the metal sink.

Despite her bleeding heart, Governor Bennett relies upon the lessons of her mentor. She falls for the concept of ‘conquer and devour.’ She regards Prisoner Ferguson as a twisted possession to call her own.

With a deep exhale, Vera draws a cold-blooded woman into her grasp. In the arms of a corpse, there’s no love. Her blunt nails peak underneath the collar of the unsightly sweatshirt. She drags them across pale flesh. Under the bite of the fox, she inflicts her wrath.

Lamb of God, have mercy on Joan. Full, chapped lips seek out her pulse point. The brush of petal softness is replaced by a nip of teeth. Bruises and bite marks become their vice.

“Not there,” Joan rasps.

At first, Vera doesn’t seem to comprehend. With her pupils blown out, she resembles a strung out addict.

“Mm?”

She suckles the patch of skin that reddens.

“It is unprofessional,” she stresses. “Need I remind you of your misconduct? How shameful it would be for a Governor to accost an inmate... Mm, and should that information leak-”

“You wouldn’t.”

Coquettishly, Joan tilts her head away from the assault.

“No?”

A clammy, cool hand slithers up beneath the hem of her sweatshirt. The softness of her abdomen betrays her razorblade sharpness. How can a woman so lethal be full of such inviting curves?

“Remove your clothing. Now,” the Governor orders.

“If you recall correcTly,” Joan drawls, “--you’ve restrained me, Vera.”

There’s a rattle on the cuffs for emphasis. The tile begins to dig into her bended knees. They’ll bruise, but she won’t complain. She anticipates the outcome of the long game. The teal swallows her just as Vera swallows the lump in her throat. Longing crushes her.

Annoyed, Vera crooks her finger into the chainlink. She compels this Tasmanian devil, with her wit and bite, to take a stand. At the desk, Vera guides her old Governor back to the start. It’s a blow to the tar black heart.

Joan’s lip twitches.

The key slides into the lock, the prison becomes questionable. Vera collects the handcuffs. She reattaches them to her utility belt.

“Strip,” the former doe repeats herself. She relaxes in a throne that isn’t her. Her elbow hits the arm rest, her fingertips caressing her jawline. Her stare remains unwavering, unblinking.

History repeats itself, over and over again – the stereotype must be exhausting, but the reader reads on, still parched.

Refusing to cease eye contact, the layers come off. Each garment is neatly folded and cast aside. Her plain, black lingerie follows. The uniform is stacked beside the desk which rightfully belongs to Joan Ferguson.

She quirks a perfectly plucked brow. Here, she lays herself bare though her agenda remains murky.

“Would you rather I fuck myself?”

A tired woman pinches the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t think about her white knight. Desire lets her dwell on the appetizing image before her. In thought, Vera sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. Begrudgingly, she nods.

The Devil makes a show out of temptation. Her lower back hits the edge of the desk. This, too, will bruise.

Joan cups her breast. There, she squeezes. Thumb and forefinger coax her nipple to harden, all too aware of the voyeuristic gaze. Nails dig into sensitive flesh. She tugs and she squeezes, eliciting a hiss from the serpent herself. A calm, assertive palm slithers over the plane of her belly, languidly diving towards the dark curls between her legs now strewn with grey.

Vera claws at her arm rests, leaning forward in her seat. Anticipation lures her closer to the crashing edge.

Graceful, elegant fingers part her lower lips. She strokes her wetness. Koschei hides her death. Shallowly, a fingertips probes. It needn’t be said; she wants her Judas to fill her.

“Quid pro quo,” Joan purrs. Her hips shift to open herself wider – to reveal her true self: glistening and pink. “I’ve shown you mine, Vera.”

Now, Vera stares pointedly, long and hard. She doesn’t anticipate the childish backlash from Joan. For once, Joan cannot deny the thrill. This is the thing she made.

“Not here.”

The appetizing thought of Governor Bennett taking care of her needs, poised in that leather throne, a desperate hand unfastening her fly and delving lower.

“Vera,” Joan accuses. “—you led me here.”

Vera hesitates. 

“I will... deal with it later.”

Unable to resist the serpent, the Governor lurches forward. It offers Joan an enticing view of her fallen disciple’s cleavage. Coolly, she stares at the shape of those succulent, pert breasts. She fights the compulsion to suck and nip on them until they’re pink and raw. That’s weakness.

Instead, a woman with a God complex allows for this final act. Wider, she spreads her legs. An ache assaults her hips, but she’s a God that doesn’t care or mind. She curses her violent, aching need.

Vera’s longest finger strokes her slit. Again, she bites her lip. How Joan wishes it were her teeth sinking in, instead. Cautiously, she sinks inside. Savors the heat, the ruin, the scandal.

Joan pulses around her.

Unable to control herself, Vera whimpers. Her knees knock together. She clenches her thighs, feeling that familiar pool of wetness.

Her hands grip the edge of the desk, her back arched. One finger becomes two which crooked deep inside. The white noise intensifies along with shallowed grunts and groans. She allows her cold-shouldered disciple the privilege of fucking divinity incarnate.

“ _There_ ,” she commands, her instructions accompanied by a steady roll of her hips.

Her forearm surges higher, faster, further. The sleeve of her blazer hitches upward, the cuff of her blouse now soiled. The sound of their coupling intensifies. Enthralled, Vera manages a smile. Happy Birthday, indeed.

“There,” Vera echoes with a particularly rough thrust that draws out a moan from her forgotten God.

Gradually, she stands up. Her waist relocates between the Devil’s splayed legs. Forehead to forehead, they move in sync with gratification the sole beneficiary of this tryst. Parted lips meet for a hollow kiss – an empty exchange of teeth, tongue, and lips.

When Joan comes, it’s like lightning. A current of electricity runs through her.

Her eyes return to the god-awful oil paintings fixated to the wall along with Vera’s trembling shoulders.

Shuddering, she sinks her claws into her uniform jacket.

“I wanted more than this,” Vera confesses against the shell of her ear, panting from exertion.

“I know,” Ferguson admits, rolling her head towards the ceiling to omit the changes that have transpired.


	5. The Attack By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calm, controlling cruelty thrives in this prison palace artifice. Tempestuous Medea continues to glower. Something caustic is only meant to end in ruin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, this fic comes to an end. Special thanks to save_yourself who fed me the prompt and allowed my imagination to spiral out of control. Thanks for reading, folks.

> “If it is to your advantage, make a forward move; if not, stay where you are.”  
>  _The Art of War_ – Sun Tzu

_I can’t do this anymore._

So this is the final tête-à-tête. Vera swears that she’s strong enough to resist Ferguson’s charm or madness. As she approaches the heart of the prison, she begins to doubt that. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wants to be without love; it’s too fucking hard. This place ages you – carves away at the person you used to be.

Why did Joan draw her into this dark gallery today?

The keys rattle. The door closes behind her. Returning to the dim and grimy boiler room, she spies the cracks in the roof at last. Married to the job, to the deed, Vera vies for a reasonable distraction. She fights back a grimace.

“Where’s the plumber?” She asks, tilting her head at a birdlike angle.

Out steps the Monarch of Hell. Joan emerges from the shadows, red-eyed and unfamiliar to Vera. At the quip, she snorts. Her arms remain bent behind her back, loose fists resting against her aching, creaking spine.

“We don’t negotiate with prisoners. You know the policy,” the Governor parrots rules that have been twisted over and over again.

Oozing tension, Vera resembles a coiled spring. Joan equates her to a viper – since when had she sharpened her teeth? Since when did she learn how to channel her venom? _I am not responsible for that._ An arrogant voice skirts along the fine line of childish haughtiness.

Bargains are doomed to expire. This game consists of traitors and betrayers. Fated, fatal, fateless, the thrill is gone. Bitter realization has drained the fabricated villain.

“You fancy these things easy to arrange,” Joan notes. She repeats the words of an old Devil.

Vera’s mouth runs dry. Her thickened tongue grazes the roof of her mouth. Again, she feels used, strung up on a codeine high.

The stifling heat of the boiler room could very well smother them. The brick walls seem to sweat with a life of their own. Ferguson sizes up her prey. Face to face, they mimic an old Western showdown. Joan looks down. Vera looks up.

“You _ravished_ me. No one else,” she murmurs softly.

Despite the whisper, her faint voice echoes. The Devil’s countenance changes. Her neck throbs – aches from a phantom pain or a noose determined to gnaw away at her skin in due time. Buried in her stare, there’s something there. A flicker of recognition, perhaps.

“Do you think yourself **innocenT** in this affair, Vera?”

Cracks adorn her heart. Her mouth twitches. Heavy bags linger beneath her eyes. Calm, controlling cruelty thrives in this prison palace artifice. Tempestuous Medea continues to glower. Something caustic is only meant to end in ruin.

Judgment’s hammer falls all too quickly. She strikes, delivering a back-handed blow to the cheek. The automaton doesn't react. Instead, Joan blinks. Already, her pale skin reddens.  

“I know you. I know what you’re like,” Vera accuses with a crisis in conscience. Rendered immobile, she doesn’t budge. “I tried my best not to become you.”

Behold the absence of blade. Her canonization and reign have been cast down. The words become a literal slap to the face. Turned away from the shining sword of the archangel, Joan diverts her stare.

“I know all about you, Vera. I know what makes you tick.”

Now, she creeps closer to the fire. Her chest brushes against her Judas' shoulder. It's a gentle nudge. A test.

Bound to the board, the Queen is determined to assume her former position. Her last attempt is one more blow. She acknowledges that she’s just a woman condemned to die, but ego is one motherfucker. While the shadow of death hangs over them, the debauchery of their lives comes full circle.

“Be resolute, Joan.” Vera speaks softly despite the iron that fortifies her voice. “Your jests grow old.”

Turned to stone, Vera remains in place.

Let it go, let it go, they can’t let this fucking go. They can’t leave things be. Memories rip apart wounds until they fester.

Through a trail of deceit and questionable good intentions, Vera has sold herself for the immortality of the position. In her fatigued resignation, she unbuttons her blazer. Forcefully, she traps Joan’s stare with her own. She shakes out the uniform and lays it on the ground as a warped votive. The sleeves resemble a dove’s wings or an old crow, crumpled and beaten.

“We’re not as invulnerable as we think,” Joan remarks softly. Her arms fall lax by her sides.

Vera recognizes something unusual about that velvety timbre: exhaustion. Her chest expands. She sighs.

A scarred hand settles upon the new Governor’s chest. She closes the gap between them. There, Joan savors the sensation of her still-beating heart. Not all of Vera is cold yet. Guilt is a summertime shade, a shadow of the past creeping over them.

Vera juxtaposes her ministrations. Her flexed fingers dance over the curve of her chest. The uniform hides a great deal. She squeezes as she pleases, trying to feel for a heart or a pound of flesh.

Those red lips curl with mournful pride. Troy wasn’t won in a day. Confession becomes a weapon. Her little lamb bleats to her own beat. A fever called ‘want’ runs its course through her.

“Kiss me.”

The demand isn’t lost upon her. For her pride and insolence, Joan Ferguson pays the price. Vera has become her crux, her jailor, her pathetic nothing turned into something. _Someone_.

Neither hold a yellow card anymore. They occupy a shared hell. A warped sacred space. This is their slice of tainted heaven.

A killing hand abandons her chest which shudders from the loss. Languidly, Joan’s palm sails up her swallowing throat. The heel settles underneath her chin before the inmate moves in to suck out the poison.

Consider it a small act of mercy. Lips graciously drink in the soul. Dying is sweet, too. Their lips move together in tandem, still fitting into place like a puzzle. Longing intensifies the act. Vera’s tongue sweeps along the roof of Joan’s mouth. She tastes like nothing. This is an acquired taste.

The animal within grapples for control. Blunt nails graze a hollowed cheek. She scratches enough to shock. Blue-grey eyes blink at the offense. Her gasp is muffled (consumed) by the mouth that hungrily consumes hers.

As ferociously as the attack began, it comes to an abrupt halt. Dazed, Vera staggers. Fingers spider down her spine. The ghostly touch grounds her.

“No,” Vera falters, unsure of what she’s protesting – the end to this kiss, this infidelity, this transgression, this _agony_.

Her hands clutch a teal collar and pull her in for another biting kiss. This time, she uses teeth and laps at her (dear puppeteer turned marionette) bruised, swollen lip. She swears she hears the older woman grunt or groan. Inner walls flutter in response.

Then, she watches Joan fall.

With Ferguson – with Joan – Vera expects an ulterior motive: some reason for the compulsion to have the apex predator get down on her knees. At the sight, she feels her nipples harden; she wants more than a quick fuck - she wants to be romanced and coddled. With Joan, she'll never have that. The upturned jacket functions as a safety net, as a temporary cushion, for how they’ve come full circle again. Three cheers for praying to ashes.

Actions define who they are, not a title.

“Wait,” Vera stammers and shatters the shell she’s become. Her hand falls upon those that flawlessly unfasten her trousers. Worry gnaws at her lip where she tastes traces of Joan. She lingers as if she's human wreckage: a hellish hangover you can't quit. “It doesn’t have to end like this-”

Correction empowers a state of mind. Ferguson attempts to correct the deficit within her. If she cannot possess Vera forever, then she can use this as leverage.

Her inky black pants pool in an inconvenient puddle. She rubs through the last, remaining barrier. Her tongue reverently traces her toned, inner thigh. She devours Vera’s scent. Closing her eyes, she presses her forehead against flushed, heated skin.

“It does and it will,” Joan rasps from below. _I need it to, because I need you._

Preparing for the curtain to fall, a tantalizing finger drags across the curls that have already dampened. Back and forth, her touch wanders. Ever a cruel mistress, she teases.

Vera gasps. Her body twitches. She parts her legs further as a sweet, albeit unholy offering. She tightens her grip on that ponytail which somehow feels softer than the taut, rigid bun ever could.

She takes her, buried to the hilt. One finger joins two with fluid strokes. Her thumb glides over her clit, motioning in steady circles. Whimpers turn into squeals.

“Mine,” she declares with a swipe of her wicked tongue. “You belong to me.” Her silken baritone remains muffled, sending vibrations deep into her core.

From above, Vera dances upon the Devil’s spoke. She grinds down. Rides out the waves of everlasting pleasure. The murmured declaration is one that falls upon deaf ears.

She comes once from Joan’s fingers and twice from Joan’s tongue. Shivering, her stomach flutters. Fallen from grace, she collapses. In some sick display of modern pietas, Joan catches her.

Like a fresh fawn, her knees knock together. Panting, Vera falls silent. Struggles to catch her breath. When she does, she pulls Ferguson in for a reeling, maddening kiss. She tastes herself and something else – something unidentifiable – that goes unsaid and twists her heart.

Seeing eye to eye, the crook of Joan’s hand nestles against Vera’s throat. Slightly disheveled with a loosened ponytail, her nostrils flare. She quells the desire to maim.

“This is the end,” she rasps, voice gravelly. “You’ll pick up the pieces of your fragile, fractured life, and forget this.”

Vera opens her mouth and promptly closes it.

It’s impossible to forget her.

This.

Defiantly, she shakes her head. Her hands fall to those curvaceous hips and squeeze. She moves to straddle her, pinning her down with her thighs though Joan could easily rise up should the occasion suit her. With her fingers, she frames a ruined saint’s sallow cheeks.

Joan of Arc feels herself burning alive on the stake. She can't break away. Her need gnaws at her belly. At Vera's defiance, the ache between her legs simply grows. Knuckles flex. Joints creak. She fights the compulsion - the urge - to correcT that behavior.

“No,” Vera mutters.

"No," Joan echoes the sentiment. Mirrors her deputy in the midst of their union.

Tangled together, she draws upon a single conclusion: Vera has triumphed over her.

Therein lies revelation.

And how it’s made her _weak_.

**Author's Note:**

> Zolita's Immaculate Conception album inspired this fic. Her song, Hurt Me Harder, resonated in particular. I recommend you give a lesson. These lyrics jump out: ' I'm in the pursuit of self-inflicted misery. I need a sadist and you are the epitome. Strike me with your words. Beat me with your lies. ' 
> 
> Each chapter is named after a part in The Art of War while incorporating Faustian elements.


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